Pam smiled.
"And I'll bet we know who'd like to be whipped instead," she said, making Laura blush again. "But she's right, I think you're out of luck, Nat. He's in my French class this year, and I doubt he's any different than the rest. At least when it comes to size."
"And how would you know?" Laura asked slyly.
"At least once a week, I wear one of those tight little dresses that produce a hard-on in every boy in that class," Pam gloated. "And I haven't had a good look at Terry's bulge, but this year's jocks are a pitiful little bunch. Hell, as long as it's been since I've been laid, if I thought any of 'em even had a good thick six inches I'd be conjugating all the verbs he wanted for him after school."
"Hey, you're the quantity queen," Natalie giggled. "I just want quality."
Mom breezed back in the room just then.
"Well, ladies, I'm afraid we have to call it quits," she said. "That was my office. They just made an arrest in that forgery case I've been working on and I've got to go downtown."
Mom walked out of the room behind her guests, a faint smile playing across her lips.
__________________________________________
I shut off the videotape and my first thought, I swear to God, was that I couldn't believe my mom was such a bitch. I mean, I could, because she was, but really, taping her friends talking about sex? After she'd steered the conversation in that direction? What a fucking bitch! My second thought? Did Laura Stone really think I was cute? I mean, I'd heard her say it, but did she really think that? I reminded myself of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer ("She things I'm cuuuuute!"), not for the first time.
I'd returned to an empty house just a few minutes after Mom and her friends had left. Almost by reflex, I'd begun to clean up the table where they'd been sitting, when I noticed that something in the room was out of place. It took me a while to identify the video camera sitting on the bookcase, pointed directly at the table. Moving closer, I noticed black tape over the red light that glowed to signal that the camera was on. And sure enough, the camera was on. I turned it off and ejected the tape. Obviously, Mom had been taping her friends, and didn't want them to know it. But why? On second thought, who the hell cared why? I had a tape of three of my mother's beautiful friends, three women who'd starred in more of my fantasies, waking and sleeping, than all the other women in the world combined.
It wasn't like I had a huge database of fantasies. I mean, it's not like I did it every night or something. Maybe every other night, but not every night. And there were girls at school that I liked, and actresses, of course. Hell, that chick on the Today Show looked real good some days. The one that read the news, not so much the one that took Katie's job. But these three women — Laura Stone, Natalie Winston, and Pamela Lee — were the stars. I dug through the cassettes on the shelves and found a defective tape that I'd unsuccessfully tried to use a few weeks ago. I slipped it in the camera and put the camera back where I'd found it. Then I turned it back on in the "record" mode, so that Mom would simply assume that she'd put a bad tape in the camera. By the time she returned late that afternoon, I had already downloaded the tape onto my PC and hidden the video file in a very safe folder in my hard drive. Erasing the tape was even easier.
I played the video the next weekend, when both of my parents were at work. It started out as an ordinary card game, with the four women still just chatting, but I'd already pulled down my pants and begun stroking my cock. Mom had deliberately taken the seat — almost pushing Natalie out of it when she tried to sit there — with her back to the camera. That was good for two reasons. The first was that I had a good view of the other women. The second was that I didn't have to look at my mother.
Because, believe me, the last thing I wanted was to find myself jerking off to pictures of my mom. My friends would have paid good money for a video like that; they had all confided to me, at one time or another, that my mother was the first one they thought about when they were doing it. Like I really needed to know that. Some of them, the little pervs, had even thought of her when they were fucking their girlfriends. I really wish that they hadn't told me that part. But it explained why my house was one of the more popular hangout places. At family get-togethers at Grandma's house, where you didn't actually have to be friends with anyone because you were gonna get invited back next year no matter how much you pissed 'em off, Mom was fond of boasting that she had the same figure that she had had in college. And her face hadn't changed much, either. The only difference was that the long blonde hair she'd had then was now styled into a short professional look that suited her job as an Assistant District Attorney. She knew perfectly well the effect she had on my friends, and lapped it up like a cat, teasing them with shorts that were too short and tops that weren't quite top enough. They just ate it up and came back for more.
On her left in the video was Mrs. Stone, my "Aunt Laura." Laura Stone had been Mom's best friend ever since she'd invited Mom, as a young college sophomore, to share a suite of rooms that Laura and two other senior girls had snagged. She was now 39, the oldest of the four women who had sat down around the table, ostensibly to play hearts. She was the shortest of the three women and perhaps the heaviest (although by no more than 10 pounds), but her chest was easily the biggest of the bunch. A few years ago I'd peeked into Mrs. Stone's closet when I took a break from mowing her lawn and went into the house for a drink while she was out grocery shopping. There it was, a 38-D bra in her hamper. Maybe she swelled to a Double-D in the fall, like Natalie said; was that possible? In any event, I was very pleased to see her in profile on the tape. And because it was still only the end of September, with unusually warm temperatures, Mrs. Stone was wearing a very tight cotton T-shirt. Awesome.
I turned my attention next to Natalie Winston, sitting on the right of my mother. Ms. Winston — "oh, please call me Natalie," she was always saying — had moved in next door, with her husband, about eighteen months ago. She was 28 or so, a number I'd arrived at by piecing together some clues she'd tossed off about her college days. With her bouncy auburn hair and beautiful blue eyes, I just knew that she'd been a cheerleader then, and she'd been the main subject of my jack-off sessions over the past summer, when she started visiting our pool. In the tape, she had on pair of much-too-long shorts as well as a pink sleeveless shirt. Natalie also had a very nice chest.
The final woman, Pam Lee, had been the subject of my fantasies for most of the last school year. She'd taught French at the high school for the last five years, and the locker room scuttlebutt put her age at 31. I'd first seen her when I was an eleventh grader last year, when my French teacher had been the gruesome Mrs. Lee. And I'd spent many afternoons last year daydreaming about her long black hair, long legs, and dark complexion. She was the tallest of the three women, and the least endowed. But she was exotically beautiful. I couldn't believe it when she and my mom became friends over the summer, and I couldn't believe it when I found out she was my new French teacher this fall. I was salivating at the prospect of seeing those fashionable suits and short skirts every day. Boy, talk about mistakes. She might be a goddess, but in class she certainly earned the nickname passed down in the boys' locker room over the past few years: la garce Française. The French bitch never missed an opportunity to put down the boys in her class, particularly those involved in sports, and I hadn't been spared just because my mom was a friend of the teacher. A month into the semester, I was wondering how quickly I could pick up Spanish.
I shot my load ten minutes after I started the tape, but I kept the tape running. There might be some even better views to use next time. At that point, they were still just playing cards, gossiping about the woman across the street who had gotten herself pregnant in spite of her husband's vasectomy. Then I watched in amazement as my mother deliberately steered the conversation to sex, and my mouth fell open as each of the women — including my mother — admitted to their past indiscretions. My cock was already starting to rise again.
Up until that point, my sexual experience had been limited; if Natalie Winston was hoping I'd be good, she'd be well advised to wait until I got out of this place. Because basically since I was old enough to talk, my mother had taken advantage of every opening to remind me what she'd given up to raise me, that she had stood first in her law school class when she'd become pregnant, and that she would have been able to earn even more than my father earned if she hadn't had to suspend her education to take care of my baby, and that I owed her. In truth, she seemed to enjoy her work, especially her occasional appearances in the newspapers and TV news as she prosecuted yet another of the city's sex crimes. But she would never admit it to me or even my dad. In fact, she would sometimes remind my dad of her former class standing as a subtle put-down, although his large paycheck meant that she couldn't treat him like she did me.
Hell, Laura was right. I was whipped. My mom had left me with the self-esteem of a rabbit. The first couple of girls I'd gotten up enough nerve to ask out had practically fled the house giggling when I brought 'em over, as ordered, to meet Mom and Dad. They'd been treated to my baby pictures first, and then to a discourse on how sickly I'd been when I was growing up. I had finally grown into my tall, gangly body, thank God, sporting what I thought of as a decent set of muscles honed by my daily swimming practice. But I still saw myself, through my mother's calculating eyes, as a perennial weenie.
Since then, I'd manage to sneak out with a girl once or twice. But the girl with whom I'd gotten the farthest had taken one look at my cock and drawn the line at a hand job. Although I knew I had the biggest cock on the swim team, it was apparently one of the biggest in the school, and she wanted nothing to do with it. Maybe Ms. Lee wanted some, though, huh? I grinned as I recalled her remark about her need for a big cock. Hey, you want some of this, bitch? Well, maybe not, but I was entitled to dream. I rewound the tape to a point where Ms. Lee had stretched across the table for a misdealt card, giving the camera a tantalizing peek down her low-cut blouse, and froze it. I was surprised I could come again that quickly, too.
It took me two weeks to find the magazine. The problem was that if you just put "Pam Lee" into Google, you got Pam Anderson. "Pamela Lee" was even worse. And "Pam Lee" with "nude," with "naked," and with "posing" weren't (obviously) any better. "Pam Lee" and "coed" — that turned out to be the answer. And oh my God, that particular issue was still available from the publisher. Of course I ordered it. I invariably picked up the mail, even on weekends, because Dad got home late and Mom couldn't be bothered. The magazine was a bit pricey at this point, being ten years old, but ya gotta do what ya gotta do.
And it wasn't until I got it that I realized that I had a problem. My mom, the bitch, was constantly searching my room, looking for signs of the steroids that she was convinced that I must be using in order to develop muscles. Nobody on my father's side had muscles like that, she pointed out. And it was obvious that I hadn't inherited anything worthwhile from her side of the family. So obviously I was taking steroids, and she scoured the place every other week. And it's not like she even pretended to do it while she was putting away the laundry. Hell, I did the laundry in the house. I was the one who made sure her 36-C underwires got hung up to dry instead of going in the dryer and her size 4 panties were nice and fluffy soft. Yeah, I know. Fuck off.
Keeping it at school was a similarly bad idea. By order of the School Board, prodded and supported, I suspected, by crusading Assistant District Attorney Deirdre Martin, we were subject to completely random locker searches at the whim of the principal, the assistant principal, and the head of the art department, who was a reformed drug addict who was assumed to have special insight into the hiding places that we secretive druggies used. The three of them had a lot of whiMs. So my locker was another poor storage place.
I finally just said the hell with it and threw the magazine out. Oh, of course, I kept the pictures. I'm whipped, I'm not stupid. Once again, I scanned 'em onto my hard drive, where they were hidden in a file that you'd have to be a computer genius to find. Occasionally, though, I'd download one to my cell phone, where I could easily hide it from view with the press of a button, and where two other buttons would permanently erase it. Until I downloaded another one. In retrospect, of course, that wasn't the brightest thing to do. I will accept responsibility for that. But I'm not going to beat myself up over it. After all, I was probably the most wildly successful accidental blackmailer in history.
